


Possession is 9/10ths

by miceenscene (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Demons, M/M, Possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-13 23:15:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/miceenscene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years ago, Sherlock made a deal. But after his suicide, he's changed his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Possession is 9/10ths

            The city slowly faded into the suburbs, which then faded into the towns.  Finally the dark rolling countryside lay before Sherlock.  Even for his extraordinary mind, it was difficult to remember which way to go.  Partially because every damned road looked the same, and partially because the last time he took this trip was almost 10 years ago.  And at the time, he had been higher than a kite.

            But pieces still looked slightly familiar, as if he had dreamed about them.  The shredded scarecrow in the grassy field.  The ruin of the house graffiti’d within an inch of its life.  An hour later, he arrived.

            He stopped the car and sat for a moment, his brain asking once again if this was worth it.  Instead of answering himself, he stepped out of the car, taking a small wooden box with him.  He looked around the empty crossroads, as if checking to see if there were cars coming.  But he was mostly looking to see if anyone was watching.  There was no one.

            He approached the middle of the roads, and knelt down, scraping the gravel and dirt away with his hand.  His fingers brushed against another box, previously a biscuit tin, but now housed a few bones, herbs, and a photo of himself from 10 years ago.  He put the tin aside and placed the wooden box where it had been.  He moved the dirt back over the box and stood up, wondering if he was either mad or an idiot. 

            It had been one of his many, many nannies that had told him about the deal that could be made at a crossroads.  The first time he had figured, what the hell? And now the second, he didn’t know what to expect.  His brain had partially convinced itself over the years that it had just been an illusion brought on by a particularly nasty concoction of hallucinogens.  And as the minutes passed and he was the only one present, he breathed a sigh of relief.

            “Hello, Mr. Holmes.”

            Sherlock’s shoulders tensed and he turned slowly around to face the man in the suit.

            “Crowley.” Sherlock replied.  Crowley grinned.

            “You know, I’m almost surprised that you remember my name. I seem to recall you being not quite all there the last time we made a deal.”

            “It was a transaction, not a deal.” Sherlock corrected.

            “Ah, right.”

            “What have you been doing with my soul for the past ten years?”

            Crowley shrugged, inserting a hand into his pocket. “Bit of this, little bit of that. Mostly it’s been keeping my lights on.” Sherlock’s lips pursed together and he looked away. Crowley grinned. “Souls are wicked powerful stuff, mate.”

            “I’m aware.”

            “Well, I have a feeling you didn’t call me up to have a chat about your soul, or rather lack of one.  This is business related.”

            “Yes.” Sherlock didn’t elaborate as Crowley began to saunter about him.

            “You want a refund.”

            “That was in the terms of our original agreement.”

            Crowley held up a finger. “You didn’t fully read your contract.”

            “We made a trade. My soul for my mind.”

            “Sorry, mate. I don’t do trade-backs.”

            Sherlock paused. “A deal then?”

            Crowley stopped circling for a moment, and looked to Sherlock. “Why?”

“The lack of a soul has become…bothersome, as of late.”

Crowley’s eyes narrowed. “Is this because of that Army doctor, your flatmate-or boyfriend-whatever you want to call him?”

            Sherlock’s lips pursed and he looked away. Crowley chuckled.

            “Oh, this is, isn’t it? Even without a soul, you regret leaving him in such a state.  Him thinking you’re dead and all. Oh, this is brilliant, mate.”

            “Enough.  I want my soul back.  Are you willing and able or not?”

            “Oh, able, yeah. But willing that’s still in question. What’s in it for me?”

            Sherlock straightened his shoulders, and slipped his hands into his coat pocket. “Name your terms.”

            Crowley grinned.  “You know, I don’t think there are any terms. I’ve rather enjoyed owning your soul all these years. Besides, you get your soul back; your cold calculative mind is gone. You realize that?”

            “Ten years. You can have it back after ten years.”

            Crowley didn’t answer, just turned and began walking away.

            “Five.” Sherlock called, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice.

            Crowley stopped and turned around. “No. No deal. Nothing. Your soul is mine; that was the deal. And you’ll thank me someday for this. People come and go, but souls are forever. And Sherlock, you, of all people, are better off without one.”

            With that, he was gone.  And Sherlock was left alone again.


End file.
